“That’s good.” He pushes a few pieces of lettuce around on his plate, scoops up a tomato and drops it again. “A year?”
I nod. “Yeah, unless we don’t want to go that long.”
He sniffs, fidgeting with his knife and spoon, straightening them over and over on the table beside his plate. “And when would we do it?”
“Soon.” The word rushes out a little louder than I’d have liked, but I push on. “We couldn’t put it off too long because of the hiring paperwork. Definitely before Ramón starts.”
He nods, chewing his bottom lip. “Right. Sooner would be better.”
My breath catches. Does this mean he’s considering it?
“So we’d be married, and I’d get to be in the show?” he asks. “Just like that?”
“I think so. You’d have your dream, and Robert would have his new musician.”
“I’d also have a beautiful wife. What would you have? Other than a famous Broadway musician husband, that is.”
He thinks I’m beautiful? I hold his gaze from across the table, not blinking, barely breathing. “I’d get to help my uncle. I owe him so much.”
I conveniently leave out the part where I would get to look at Calvin daily—and that would not be a chore at all—hear him play, be near him. Yes, I wanted him for months before ever speaking to him, but he’s so clearly full of joy, and passion, and a playfulness I never could have predicted. I’m even more attracted to him now that we’ve spoken. He’s witty. So talented . . . but not arrogant. Way too sexy.
Calvin looks down at his salad and I can tell he’s mulling this crazy offer over. Oh, my God, he thinks I’m a headcase.
My stomach turns to concrete.
“Holland,” he says slowly, more somber than his previous impish tone. “I appreciate what you’re offering, I really do, but I worry that it’s a burden that you really shouldn’t have to bear. I wasn’t trying to butter you up earlier—you really are beautiful. What if you meet someone in the next twelve months, and you want to date him?”
It’s hard for me to imagine wanting anyone other than him right now. But maybe he’s asking this from his own perspective. Maybe he doesn’t want to be stuck in a situation where he can’t date and sleep with other women.
“Yeah, I mean . . . if you want to date other women in that time . . . maybe you could be discreet?”
“Shite. No. No, Holland, that’s not what I meant. This is beyond generous. I’m still in shock. That Robert Okai wants me in his show . . . that I impressed him. But you, wanting to make my dream possible?”
He lets out a long, controlled breath.
I’m not sure what else to say. I’ve laid it all out on the table and am holding my breath in these long, painful spans, just waiting to hear what he says.
Finally, he lifts his napkin and wipes his mouth again before setting the cloth neatly at the edge of his place mat. His face explodes in a grin. “I’m in, Holland. On one condition.”
I feel the way my brows disappear into my hair. “A condition?”
“Let me take you out.”
I nod, waiting for him to elaborate. When he doesn’t, I look around the restaurant. “You mean like . . . a date?”
“Call me old-fashioned, but I like to date a girl before I marry her. Besides, to pull off this mad plan of yours, I reckon we need to look like we’re in love?” When I nod, he continues. “Come out with me tomorrow night and let’s see if we can stand to be near each other. You’re not going to want me in your apartment if you can’t handle me at a bar.”
He has a point, but I laugh at his wording. “Handle you at a bar? Are you trying to scare me away?”
Calvin leans in. “Not in the slightest.” His eyes move to my mouth, and his voice goes low and warm. “Besides, something this big warrants at least a twenty-four-hour think, yeah?”
Swallowing, I give him a trembling “Absolutely.” We’re talking about a transactional marriage, but I feel like we’ve just enjoyed a tumbling round of foreplay.
Sitting up, he nods to where my phone is resting on the table, and I slide it over to him. He types in a message and a moment later, his phone vibrates with a text. “There”—he slides mine back across the table—“I’ll send you the details and we’ll see each other tomorrow night.”
I’m supposed to meet Calvin at Terminal 5 at eight o’clock. I’m a little better at handling the cast by now and get dressed on my own, deciding on a pair of loose ripped jeans for easier bathroom excursions, a black sweater, and my favorite boots.
It’s a long walk, even by New Yorker standards, from the train to the venue on Eleventh Avenue. I have a cab drop me off as close as the crowds allow, and text Calvin that I’m here.
With an arm up in a wave, he steps off the curb in front of the building, his long legs wrapped in dark jeans, a gray jacket over a white T-shirt. His hair is shiny beneath the flickering neon sign, and when he’s close enough to take my hand and lead me inside, I smell soap and fabric softener. I give myself precisely three seconds to imagine how it would feel to press my face to his neck and huff him.
“This okay?” he asks.
I pull my eyes up to his face and then look around, really taking in our surroundings for the first time. Calvin has managed to get us into a show that—according to the signs outside—is completely sold out.
“You’re showing off, aren’t you?”
His laugh is a bursting, delighted sound. “I’m absolutely showing off.”
We check our coats and head to a sweeping balcony that looks out on the stage and the general admission area below. There’s an identical level just above, with industrial steel railings, a bar, restrooms, and small clusters of couches scattered around.
“Are we here to watch?” I ask, looking out at the giant disco ball suspended from the center of the massive ceiling. “Or are you playing?”
“I’ll be in for one set, yeah. It’s a miniature festival. One of the bands I play with was invited.” Calvin pays for our drinks and hands me my glass before leading us to a VIP section roped off next to the railing. “This time there will be no spandex or dangly earrings, I promise.”
I laugh and peek out over the railing. The floor is starting to fill. Those lucky enough to get in are already crowding their way to the front near the stage.
“You guys weren’t bad. Despite all the crotch-strangling Lycra. How many bands do you play with?”
“It changes,” he says, “but four, at the moment. Funny enough, the crotch stranglers do pretty well for themselves. I was only brought in a few weeks ago when their original guitarist threw his back out doing a fancy high kick.” He takes a sip of his drink and the limes jostle against the ice cubes. “The pay is good, so I didn’t ask too many questions.”
“Do you have a favorite?”
“I just want to play music.” He looks down at me, and his eyes are so wide and earnest. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted.” The way he says this plucks at a tender spot in my chest, the part that sees my laptop rusting away under a pile of takeout menus and junk mail. My degree sits useless in the proverbial box under my bed. Music is Calvin’s passion and he’s found a way to do it, no matter what. I’ve always been obsessed with words—so why can’t I seem to write a single one?